


Unsaid

by Amalia Kensington (amaliak01)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: ALL ABOARD THE ANGST TRAIN, F/M, Spoilers, The Final Problem
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-17
Updated: 2017-01-17
Packaged: 2018-09-18 02:42:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9362663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amaliak01/pseuds/Amalia%20Kensington
Summary: Molly was not having a good day.(There was a Thing That Happened between Molly and Sherlock.)





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Emcee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emcee/gifts), [PetraTodd](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PetraTodd/gifts), [sempaiko](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sempaiko/gifts), [Writingwife83](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Writingwife83/gifts).



Molly was not having a good day.

 

The cold that had taken hold of her was vicious, and she shuffled into her kitchen, putting on the kettle for a good cuppa.

 

She stood by the sink, scoffing a bit at the lovely bright day outside her window. The irony was not lost on her. In fact, a lot of ironies were more than apparent to her.

 

Dammit, she wasn’t going to think about it again, wasn’t going to think about _him_ again. And yet, ever since it happened, she’d thought of little else.

 

She’d been restlessly asleep on the couch of 221B as she had been for a few nights a week for over a month, opening her eyes to find him crouched beside her, watching her in the lamp glow.

 

“Sherlock?” she’d asked as she sat up, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. “Did you need something?”

 

He’d continued to watch her from his crouched position, his eyes roaming around her face, searching.

 

“Sherlock?”

 

His hands had reached out, fingertips brushing over the skin beneath her eyes, knowing that he had been studying the ugly darkness there. He gave similar attentions to lines in her forehead, the curves of the ones around her mouth.

“You’re tired,” he’d stated.

 

“Yes.” Molly had wondered why he was bothering with stating the obvious. Of course she was tired: she was grieving, for so much that she never thought she’d have to grieve for, had been grieving far too long without being given a chance to heal. Her breath had hitched a bit at that, and it had caught his attention.

 

“Why do you stay, Molly Hooper?”

 

“You know we all came up with a way to try to help you, Sherlock. We’re your friends, we don’t want you to recover alone--” His thumb had brushed over her bottom lip, successfully cutting her off. He’d done it once more, eyes following the movement before removing his hands from her face completely.

 

“I’m not talking about that,” his voice had rumbled low and dark. “Why do you _stay_?”

 

Molly had taken a sharp inhale through her nose. She wasn’t going to say it, not the first thought that flashed across her mind the moment she’d understood just what he was asking her: why did she stay in this whole mess that was the life and adventures of Sherlock Holmes, why did she active make choices to remain in his orbit, why “I...I told you once, a long time ago. I know what it means, I...you don’t have to be alone, Sherlock. I told you that you could have me.”

 

“Can I?”

 

He’d moved to kneel directly in front of her, his hands resting on the couch on either side of her hips.

 

“May I?” he had all but whispered, his eyes never leaving hers as he’d come closer, stopping just a breath away.

 

She’d swallowed thickly but still nodded.

 

Gently, carefully, he’d kissed her. Oh, and how she’d kissed him back! Suddenly, she’d been more empathetic with Sherlock than ever before: if this what it meant to get high, she could understand how much one would be willing to endure to reach it again. He had been warm and solid and oh so _alive_. She’d never felt so grateful to be able to feel his hair curl around her fingers, to feel the heat of his breath, to taste the inside of that mouth and know it could bring pleasure as well as brilliance. He’d wrapped his arms around her and she’d wrapped her legs around him and they’d ended up tangled in each other on his bed.

 

Molly leaned her elbows against the sink, feeling the tears coming back, breathing hard.

 

He’d been so gentle, so kind, almost reverent (if she was being fanciful).  She’d fought back saying anything besides his name, repeated almost as often as he’d said hers, meanings and fleeting thoughts so so much that refused to be put into words never passing between them as they finally ( _finally_ ) came together.

 

Afterwards, she’d been lulled to sleep by the thrum of his heartbeat, and she’d nearly let it all slip out then - the tiny little words of the English language that would give him all the truth he needed, but none of the answers he sought.

 

Tears burned down her face, making her gasp as she thought about what that all meant, especially after what had come by morning light.

 

She’d roused by what she believed was a brushing of lips across her brow. But when she had opened her eyes, across the bed, she’d seen Sherlock, in his dressing gown, sitting on the bed with is back to her.

 

“John will be here soon,” were the first words he’d spoken, not glancing back at her as he stood up and walked over to the chair to pick something up. He’d turned back to her and placed what turned out to be her neatly folded clothes from the previous night on the bed. His eyes had met hers briefly as she’d stared first at the clothes and then back at him.

 

“You’ll want privacy to get dressed,” he’d said, a ghost of a smile on his lips before he’d retreated from the bedroom, closing the door behind him.

 

She should have known.

 

And really, part of her _had_ known, had had enough of a sense of self-preservation to make sure she hadn’t uttered words she couldn’t take back in the heat of passions long desired finally fulfilled.

 

She’d not let another word slip from her lips as she’d quietly dressed, picked up her things and slipped out the door, not bothering to look for wherever he’d been in the flat as she’d made her escape. She’d been proud of herself for not letting the first tear escape until she’d managed to walk through her own front door.

Molly heard the kettle click off, signaling the water was ready and she did her best to pull herself together.

 

Enough of this foolishness.

 

Her phone was buzzing on the countertop as she turned back. She paused as she saw the name that popped up on the screen. Baker Street had been blown to bits last week and who knows what Sherlock (and likely John) had gotten themselves into now. Whatever it was, she wasn’t at his beck and call. Just because she _stayed_ , didn’t mean she always had to eagerly respond at his every beck and call. She nearly sighed with relief as the ringing stopped.

 

She sliced another piece of lemon, sniffling.

 

The phone buzzed back to life again.

 

She knew what she should do. She did. But we all do silly things for love, she’d said once - that continued to be her simple and painful truth.

 

She picked up the phone.

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't written in a while but after this episode I couldn't get it out of my head that Something Happened. I hope you enjoyed it.


End file.
